


Walk the Wire

by Rose_of_Pollux



Category: The A-Team (TV), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Episode: s05e06 The Say UNCLE Affair, Fix-It, Gen, Parallel Universes, pseudo-crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6451816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_Pollux/pseuds/Rose_of_Pollux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The choices an agent makes can have effects that linger for years to come.  In two different realities, two blond Russian spies learn this the hard way, but with two very different outcomes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk the Wire

**Author's Note:**

> This is a pseudo-crossover fic between MFU and A-Team (I say pseudo because I make it clear in the fic that the two are in separate timelines), specifically regarding the events of the A-Team episode “The Say UNCLE Affair” and the differences between Ivan and Illya when faced with the same dilemma. This is a fix-it fic for that A-Team ep, as well as a fix-it for the “Fifteen Years Later” MFU movie, which I do not count as part of the timeline, so this is two fix-its with one fic.

***The skies over the Atlantic Ocean, Earth, December, 1965--***  
Illya Kuryakin was quieter than usual after their dealings with Robespierre. The Russian was refusing to meet his partner’s eye on the flight back to New York as he sat there, still in his failed disguise—the white suit and glasses. Illya’s face was deadpan as usual, but only Napoleon knew him well enough to see through his default expression and into the true emotions behind his eyes—and right now, Illya could feel his bottled-up guilt threatening to consume him and hoped that it didn’t reflect too much in his eyes. Napoleon had only narrowly stopped Robespierre’s plan and had succeeded in saving the vineyards, but Illya knew that if he had just destroyed that last, vital missile part when he’d had the chance to do so, they wouldn’t have had to cut it so close—in more ways than one, Illya silently thought, massaging his neck as he suppressed a shudder.

“Illya?” Napoleon asked.

Startled, the Russian looked to the American; his heart gave a slight twinge to see the look of concern on his partner’s face.

“I will be fine, Napoleon,” Illya promised, but then he paused. There was hardly any conviction in his voice.

Napoleon’s expression clearly showed that he wasn’t buying it, and Illya knew that he would have to either come up with something convincing, or come clean.

“You know, Illya—” Napoleon began, but Illya cut him off.

“Napoleon, there is something you need to know as Chief Enforcement Agent,” Illya confessed. “I had a chance to destroy that last part of the missile, but I did not; I threw the mission, Napoleon. He twisted my arm, metaphorically speaking, and I gave it back to him. Because of that, the vineyards were almost destroyed—they would have been if you had not managed to rectify my inexcusable blunder.”

He looked away, unable to look his partner in the eye. He was determined not to reveal the reason why he had thrown the mission. Napoleon would be biased to go easy on him already as his partner; if he found out it had been to save his life, he would go even easier on him. Illya’s intentions had been noble, but he had broken protocol; as field agents, he knew they were expendable, and the success of the mission came first. Furthermore, he had disobeyed a direct order from Waverly to return to headquarters.

“Illya—”

“Napoleon, please… Do not show me any preferential treatment. Treat me as you would anyone else in Section II who had broken protocol.”

“For anyone in Section II, I would go over their service record,” Napoleon said. “Yours is exemplary. You always provide results, Illya, even if you sometimes deviate from protocol. And while it is true that you disobeyed orders and broke protocol, you did so to save the life of a fellow agent.”

Illya froze and looked back to Napoleon.

“How…?”

“Le Mademoiselle Professor told me everything,” Napoleon said, with a smirk. “And I’d called in to Mr. Waverly just before we got on the plane.”

“…Then…”

“Mr. Waverly has left me with the decision of what action to take.”

“And?”

“And I already know your service record very well, so there’s no reason for me to look that up. Taking that into consideration, as well as your intent, I think an unofficial reprimand will be enough.”

Illya exhaled.

“I do not know whether to be relieved or exasperated,” he said. “Napoleon, do you understand that I nearly allowed the vineyards to go up in flames!? So many people could have suffered…!”

“Making this call wasn’t easy for me, Illya. Fortunately, I was able to cover for you and stop that from happening, so there was no lasting harm done. And of course, my self-preservation instinct can’t exactly blame you for what you did. And making this decision would’ve been difficult even if it hadn’t been my hide you’d saved.” He sighed and glanced at his partner. “Thank you, by the way.”

Illya looked him straight in the eyes now.

“What frightens me most is that I would do it again—without a moment’s hesitation,” he confessed.

“…So would I,” Napoleon admitted.

Illya blinked in surprise, but nodded and then sighed again as the guilt continued to gnaw at him. Theirs was a complex and agonizing profession—one that would never get any easier.

***The skies over the Atlantic Ocean, Alternate!Earth, December, 1965--***  
Ivan Trigorin had no guilt for the decision he had made to spare the life of his partner, Hunt Stockwell, over the French vineyards. Stockwell, clever and resourceful as he was, had found a way to save the vineyards after all, and was proudly writing about it in his mission report.

“Don’t forget to mention the one who saved your life—again,” Ivan joked, sipping a flute of champagne.

“And don’t forget you wouldn’t be drinking that if I hadn’t figured out a way to stop that plot…”

“…Are you blaming me for throwing the mission?”

“No…” Stockwell said, after thinking about it. “You knew what you were doing. At least, I hope you knew what you were doing.”

“Saving your life.”

“…You’re not going to let me forget it, are you?”

“Not at all,” Ivan smirked.

Stockwell just rolled his eyes, but grinned.

“Alright, I’ll cover for you this time,” he said. “Kinda have to, seeing as though I’d have probably done the same.”

“Good to know.”

“Sure. Just don’t make a habit of this, huh?”

Ivan merely shrugged noncommittally, sinking back in his seat and enjoying the rest of the flight with a mind at peace.

***Cuba, Alternate!Earth, November, 1975--***  
Ivan wasn’t sure for how long he and Stockwell had been beaten, bruised, and questioned over the Javelin network. Their enemies had been determined not to stop until one of them divulged the information, yelling the same old lines, striking the same hits to their faces…

Stockwell had passed out first—out cold and unable to be awakened, even after buckets of cold water had been tossed upon him. Tied directly behind him on a wooden post, Ivan had shuddered as he had felt the water soak him, as well, but that sensation was nothing compared to the chill he had felt upon realizing that Stockwell was completely unresponsive; his partner was either dead or dying.

“Untie them,” Ivan heard someone order their interrogator.

Ivan found himself untied from the post and thrown to the ground; Stockwell flopped to the ground beside him, and if it hadn’t been for his shallow breathing, Ivan would have thought he was dead.

“That one,” their interrogator’s superior said, pointing to Stockwell. “He is useless to us now. Put him out of his misery.”

The interrogator dutifully aimed a gun at Stockwell’s heart, and Ivan knew there was only one way to save his partner’s life—even if he’d never go for it. Hunt Stockwell would not want twenty-seven innocent people to die for him.

Well, too bad.

“Wait!” Ivan exclaimed. “Wait! I will tell you what you want to know!”

Hours later, it was over—their captors released the two of them, and Ivan tended to Stockwell’s injuries. The word came later that all twenty-seven members of the Javelin network had been killed. When Stockwell revived, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Ivan had been responsible; in the days following the incident, as the inquiry unfolded and Ivan was facing both charges and humiliation, Stockwell lobbied for him to be pardoned—that there had to have been some mistake… that there was no proof that Ivan had been the one to sell out the Javelin network. Due to his status, Stockwell found his request granted, but Ivan knew that his days as an agent—and as Stockwell’s partner—were finished.

“There is no coming back from this,” Ivan quietly realized. “My career is over.”

And Stockwell had to agree; their lives were no longer going to be the same.

***Cuba, Earth, November, 1975--***  
Illya’s heart was hammering in his chest as, for the third time, an ice-cold bucket of water soaked both him and Napoleon. And though a hiss escaped his own lips, the silence from his partner was horrifying.

“Napoleon…?” he asked. “Napoleon!?”

He was slapped by their interrogator, and then untied and thrown to the ground alongside Napoleon.

Illya was still trying to see past the stars that had erupted in front of him when he was suddenly aware of his interrogator being ordered to shoot Napoleon.

For an instant, he considered talking—selling out the Javelin network to save his partner’s life, just as he had been willing to risk the French vineyards and their workers ten years ago to save him.

But one look at his partner’s unconscious face told him that it would not be what Napoleon would have wanted. Napoleon Solo would not want twenty-seven innocent people to die for him.

Illya looked up just as their interrogator aimed a gun at Napoleon’s heart.

The Russian decided to take a third option.

Summoning every last scrap of strength that remained in his beaten and battered body, Illya leaped to his feet and grabbed at the gun. He didn’t have the strength to seize it from the interrogator’s grip, but that hadn’t been his intent; he just needed to move the man’s arm—spoil his aim, and then twist the wrist to get him to drop it…

BANG. BANG.

The searing pains in his abdomen and his leg told Illya that his plan had gone horribly right; he _had_ saved Napoleon, but getting hit himself was not at all what he had intended. His brain went on autopilot; even as he fell, Illya twisted the interrogator’s wrist. As the grip on the gun loosened, Illya snatched it, firing once at the interrogator and once at his superior before all three of them hit the ground one after the other.

Illya felt his vision begin to blur.

“Not yet…” he quietly instructed himself. “Not yet…”

Slowly, he used his arms to pull himself over to his partner’s side, tearing at a seam in his partner’s jacket, revealing a secret compartment with a smelling salts capsule that their captors had missed. With shaking hands, he cracked the capsule open under Napoleon’s nose before he slipped into darkness himself.

He was already out before he had a chance to hear Napoleon’s grunt of disgust.

“Oof…” he groaned. “Now I understand why they want us out of the field at age 40; I’m getting too old for this…” Napoleon trailed off as he saw his partner slumped against him, unresponsive and bleeding. “Illya!?”

A look around told Napoleon everything he needed to know; and he quickly weighed his options, knowing that he was too weak to carry Illya out himself. He risked a phone call from the phone on the table for backup before going back to his fallen partner, desperately trying to keep him alive until help arrived.

After hours that seemed like eternities, they were extracted. Illya’s condition was touch-and-go for a long time; they nearly lost him once during the surgery to remove the bullets he had taken in Napoleon’s place. But, finally, Illya awoke to the familiar sights and sounds of Medical—and Napoleon sitting in the chair beside him.

“Illya…!” Napoleon sighed in relief.

“Napoleon…!” the blond murmured. “I… You…” His eyes widened. “Javelin…! Did they--?”

“They’re safe, Illya—all of them are safe,” Napoleon assured him. “And so am I, thanks to you. You’ll get a commendation for this; I know it.” He squeezed Illya’s hand. “But you’ve got to stop scaring me like this, you know?”

“I don’t think I have much of a choice,” Illya replied, dully.

“What do you mean?”

“You are only weeks away from your fortieth birthday, Napoleon, and then you’ll be taken out of the field. My leg won’t be fully functional until well after that, and it will be almost impossible to find me another partner—and pointless, since I will be 40 the following year.” Illya sighed and stared up at the ceiling. “My career is over.”

Napoleon gave Illya’s shoulder a good-natured pat.

“Not as over as you might think,” he said. “Even though we both seem to be a bit too old to be dealing with THRUSH, it would be a shame to let our skills go to waste, don’t you think?”

Illya arched an eyebrow as he gave Napoleon a look.

“There’s always a niche for private investigators,” Napoleon said. “And since sitting around seems too dull for the both of us, we could always try that—once you fully heal, of course. Wouldn’t be as strenuous as dealing with THRUSH—and nowhere near as dangerous, either.” 

“Just dangerous enough,” Illya smirked.

“Don’t act like you could easily slip into retirement and sit around with a pipe and slippers all day.”

“I couldn’t,” Illya admitted. “No more than you could.”

“Then it’s settled,” Napoleon said. “Put in your two weeks and leave with me. But, ah, I do have one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“This…” Napoleon indicated Illya on the hospital bed. “This has got to stop.”

Illya grinned in spite of himself—a grin that Napoleon returned. There was uncertainty ahead, and their lives were no longer going to be the same, but they would be okay.

***California, Alternate!Earth, October, 1986--***  
Stockwell now entered the safehouse, pausing beside the bedside of the wounded blond who had once been his partner.

“It worked,” he said. “They think you’re dead.”

When Ivan had called him that morning, Stockwell had suspected there was a code in his words. It turned out he was right; Ivan was trying to tell him that he was being controlled and blackmailed by their enemies—and that he was being expected to turn against his old partner.

Stockwell had prepared himself for what Ivan would have been forced to do; the reverse had been true, as well, and though Ivan had survived the explosion, they had both known that there could have been a chance that he would not have been that lucky.

Still, he was. And now, Ivan wearily opened his eyes. He could see that Stockwell still had the bruises and wounds from the “questioning session.”

“Thank you,” Ivan murmured. He hadn’t expected Stockwell to help him after what happened in Cuba, but after Stockwell had agreed to the meeting, Ivan had begun to hope that it was all ancient history.

“What are old partners for?”

There was an edge to Stockwell’s voice. Not quite ancient history, then… Of course, he should have known; the truth serum had been genuine, and it was clear that Stockwell had been in denial for the past eleven years, and had only just now come to accept the terrible truth.

“I’m sorry,” Ivan said.

“That’s not going to bring them back.”

Ivan knew he deserved that; he deserved all of this.

“I didn’t want them to kill you,” Ivan said.

“There should have been another way!”

“I didn’t see it, but I should have looked harder.” Ivan shut his eyes. “And I’m sorry for today, too. I had to make it look convincing.”

“Ivan, how long were they forcing you to work for them?”

“Since almost immediately after Cuba,” Ivan said. “They blackmailed me—said they would prove I betrayed Javelin and that I was in too deep to refuse.”

“Why didn’t you try to contact me sooner!?”

“Aside from the fact that I didn’t think you would want to help after what happened in Cuba, there was the fact that I didn’t have a chance. They were watching me all the time.” Ivan sighed. “But more than the humiliation, more than being a puppet… The thing I regret most of all regarding this was losing you.” Ironic, really, that he had lost what he had struggled to protect…

“Well, I’m here now,” Stockwell said. “I can get you set up with a new identity. …You’ll be sticking around?”

Ivan looked to him in mild surprise, but nodded.

“Okay. I’ve got some things that need my attention right now, but I’ll be back later. Get some rest.”

“You’ve forgiven me, then?”

“I have to; if it had been reversed… I’d have broken, too,” Stockwell admitted, and he paused before leaving. “Here’s to new beginnings?”

“… _Da_. To new beginnings.”

Stockwell nodded in approval and left.

Ivan closed his eyes again. His old partner had forgiven him, though he knew he would never forget it—never forget that, because of him, Stockwell had the weight of twenty-seven lives on his shoulders.

Ivan sighed, taking comfort in the knowledge that, with the infinite possibilities of parallel universes, somewhere, in one of those universes, that version of himself had made the proper choice.

***Hawaii, Earth, October, 1986--***  
Illya took a moment to stare in amusement at the little, paper umbrella in his blue Hawaii cocktail before taking a sip of it, relishing the familiar taste of the vodka in it. He sighed in contentment and reclined back on the deck chair, staring out at the surf.

“Admit it,” Napoleon said, reclining in a second chair beside him with a blue Hawaii cocktail of his own. “This private eye idea was the best idea I’ve had in a long time. Hawaii as our base of operations? The freedom to choose which cases we want to take? Still able to gallivant across the globe?”

“Well, I would have preferred somewhere cooler to set up as our base of operations.”

“You would…”

“That aside, I have been enjoying our self-employment,” Illya admitted. “And I am honored, of course, that you would choose me for this venture.”

“As if I could have chosen anyone else!” Napoleon scoffed. “There’s no one else I—”

The ringing of the phone on the small table beside them interrupted the former Section II head. Illya removed his sunglasses to stare at the phone.

“Another client?” he queried.

“Perhaps,” Napoleon said, and he picked up the receiver. “Solo and Kuryakin Investigations; how can I help you?” His eyes suddenly widened. “April!?”

“ _What_?” Illya asked, incredulously.

Napoleon silently waved Illya over to the receiver.

“Could you say that again, April?” he asked, as Illya leaned in to listen.

“U.N.C.L.E. _just_ changed the policy on the mandatory retirement age for field agents!” she repeated, excitedly. “Mark and I are back, and we’ve been seeing so many familiar faces—we were hoping to see yours, too! …And we’re not the only ones; the new director said that if you and Illya returned, you’d get your old positions back, too.”

Napoleon let out a low whistle while Illya just stared, deadpan.

“Can we get back to you on that, April?” Napoleon asked, after a moment.

“Oh, certainly; talk it over between you. We keep hearing about how successful you two are as private investigators; no one would blame you if you stay with that. Hope to hear from you soon! Give my regards to Illya!”

“Right,” Napoleon said, and he placed the handset of the phone back down. “Well…”

“Well,” Illya echoed. “New York would be cooler than Hawaii.”

“Illya…!”

“I know, Napoleon. I know. Ironic that we were only just discussing about how great our work is now, only to get called back by U.N.C.L.E. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Napoleon admitted. “But I can’t shake this thought that they wouldn’t be lifting the age restriction and calling back the old gang if it wasn’t something very important. A THRUSH revival? Other old enemies? Should we even get involved with them again?”

Illya managed a small smile.

“Napoleon, I’ve been your partner in and out of U.N.C.L.E. for twenty-six years now; I know you. Your sense of duty is prodding at you, and you want to listen to it. And I have absolutely no intentions of letting you go once more unto the breach without me.”

Napoleon looked back at Illya and grinned.

“Then let’s start packing,” he said, and he raised his blue Hawaii cocktail. “Here’s to new beginnings?”

Illya’s smile widened to a grin, as well, as he raised his glass to meet Napoleon’s

“ _Da_. To new beginnings.”


End file.
